The Pale Door
The wind that swept across the moor did not merely blow; it carved, it scoured, it sought to peel the flesh from the bone of the earth itself, a relentless, gray exhalation from the throat of an ancient and indifferent god, and within the howling gale, the figure of Elias Thorne moved with a slowness that was not of the body but of the soul, his steps heavy as if he were wading through the...
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